Airlean Tales S2E5: City of Light (2)

It was a matter of minutes before the Lord Envoy of Atlantis would step through the door, and Prince Sethis Galen Lunaren was still setting the table.

The tablecloth in his hands was of fine make—heavy silk, embroidered with gold thread, dyed in kingly blue and rich white. Remnants of the thriving beacon of trade that Airlea had once been. Sethis’s thumb ran over the gold leaf detailing on the hem, and unbidden, a distant memory surfaced to his mind: the radiant face of his spirited mother and her bright, keen eyes, glittering like dew.

The table is a special place, my sunlight, she’d said, tablecloths billowing out like flags with a strong flick of her wrist. Miracles happen there; lifelong grudges can be forgiven. Most say that the throne room is the seat of power in the kingdom, but I’ve always believed the banquet hall is stronger.

It had taken many years for Sethis to understand her meaning, but now, he truly did. A meal prepared with love, a table set with care, good company and hearty cheer—those were the greatest weapons against Airlea’s threats. Perhaps not the corrupted beasts lurking at the borders, but certainly the more insidious dangers: despair and hatred.

“Ridiculous,” muttered his brother, the youthful Prince Micah. Gangly and not yet fully grown, the pale-haired prince fumbled with his own tablecloth, which looked large enough to swallow him. “Why are princes setting the tables? Have we no servants?”

“Those servants were cleaning suites past dawn for the surprise fifty guests that appeared in the dead of night,” Sethis reminded. “Hospitality for an esteemed delegation is an endeavor not be underestimated. Personal attendants for the Lord Envoy, fresh linens and dishware daily, curated refreshments delivered to the rooms at regular intervals—with the short notice, every hand is needed.”

Micah’s frown deepened. “A lot of fuss for little gain. The envoy will see it as mockery that his audience is granted in a parlor, of all places.”

“What else is there to do? Father denied us the throne room.”

“Father hardly warrants the word,” Micah snapped, his eyes blazing. “A statue would better suit the throne! At least it would beautify the room.”

Not for the first time, Sethis felt a flicker of apprehension at the darkness within his brother. Anger was justified—expected, even. But this was not the first occurrence that Micah had indirectly referred to the removal of their father as king, and briefly, Sethis wondered…

Asters, there was too much to see to. The crumbling kingdom. The raging Storm. The king, wasting away on his own throne. And now the encroaching rage within his own brother.

Sethis attempted to shove away the disquiet as he finished the final tablecloth, turning his attention to the small crystal vases of flowers that would be set in the center of each table. He froze for a moment, staring at an array of fresh stems of daylilies, chrysanthemums, and dewblooms that had been left by the palace gardeners.

What did he know of flowers? Myths save him, surely he would pick some terribly offensive arrangement, anger the Lord Envoy, and embroil Airlea in a war with another nation.

“I am quite hopeless at floral arrangements,” he said, laughing to cover up the encroaching sense of panic. “Have you come across anything in your studies to assist, Micah?”

“Yes,” said Micah. “Put together flowers that look pretty.”

“Sage counsel indeed. No hidden language of flowers to share, no scholarly insights of floral aesthetics?”

“The language of the flowers is odd and subjective, made off of the collective madness of a people too haughty to simply use their words,” Micah said. “We invented the dictionary for a reason.”

Well, that was an admittedly discerning observation that would have incited the entire aristocracy into a riot.

“Be that as it may, I would prefer not to enrage the Lord Envoy of Atlantis with an ill-placed bloom,” Sethis said ruefully.

Micah shrugged. “If the Lord Envoy is prone to such tender sensibilities, then best he is disappointed now rather than later.”

Sethis nearly snorted. There was truth to that observation. If only the realm of politics and social encounters accepted the truth more often.

A messenger burst through the parlor doors, announcing the imminent arrival of the Envoy. Sethis reached up to quickly straighten his collar and press his hand through his hair, trying to seem presentable and poised, and not like he’d been scrambling around the room with tablecloths and drapery and flowers for two hours. Belatedly, he realized he should have enlisted some soldiers to stand in rank and file behind him. He must have cut a lonely and pathetic figure, standing with no one but his brother.

It’s been too long, he thought despairingly. I am far too out of practice in the social graces. His sword had seen more days than his courtly etiquette, and it now showed.

The parlor doors swung open again. Lilian Forsythe strode forth. After her habitual salute, she and her guards marched forth to flank him and Micah, granting him a more imposing presence—bless her.

Behind her followed Simon Kourios and his troop. He glanced around the parlor, but if he was offended by its meagerness, he did not show it. He only swept into a bow.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Thank you for granting us an audience.”

“I only wish it had been done sooner,” Sethis replied, struggling to find the right verbiage. “We appreciate your patience.”

“Think nothing of it,” Simon said smoothly. “We had a diverting time in the city…and it gave us the opportunity to prepare our own gestures of goodwill.”

He nodded back at the door. Several Atlantean warriors marched forth, bearing three large, resplendent coffers with gilded edges that glimmered in the candlelight. Without ceremony, the lid of the first coffer was removed.

Sethis barely stifled a gasp.

Pearls. A sea of them, glimmering with a soft, pure sheen. Most were pale in color and spherical in shape, but there were others. Blood-crimson, iridescent, dark and spectral. Some even glowed in the shadows of the coffer with bioluminescence. The monetary value alone could match a small country’s treasury.

Before Sethis could offer a proper response, Simon nodded again, and the second coffer was uncovered.

Crystal swords and spears winked up at the ceiling, catching the light with milky, speckled blades. No, not crystal—opalite, a high-grade mana quartz only found deep within the Atlas Sea, so named after the precious stone it resembled. Though not as coveted as Yueraian steel in combat, it was still a formidable material due to its natural affinity with water. It was superior in other ways. Mainly, Atlanteans plated it on their armor and embroidered it in their clothing, allowing them to dart through the water at dazzling speeds.

Sethis tore his gaze away from the opalite weapons, struggling for words, but Simon was already opening the third coffer.

This treasure was the most humble in appearance, but Sethis was not fooled. He looked over a tidily shelved collection of leather tomes, and though some were clearly ratty, others gathering dust on the spines, he immediately knew that this was the most valuable of the three. The brief twitching of Micah’s fingers only reinforced this idea. The boy was completely enthralled with magical studies, and he would know quality when he saw it.

Sethis had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. “This is certainly impressive. These are the wares you have brought for trade?”

“Were it merely trade, we would have gone to the merchants,” said Simon. He bowed. “No, Your Highness, consider this a gift.”

Lilian remained stoic, but a faint noise escaped Micah before it was quickly strangled. Sethis wanted to laugh at the outrageous offer, but he managed to control himself.

A gift. Gifts this extravagant always came at a price, and that price was usually steep. Sethis wanted to believe the best of everyone, but he was also no fool.

“We hardly deserve the pleasure of such a bountiful tribute,” he said, probing carefully.

“Gifts are meant to be received, not deserved,” was all Simon said.

Could it be true? Certainly not. “Your generosity is gratefully accepted,” Sethis said.

“As is the nature of gifts, forgive us for not responding in kind,” Lilian added. “We were not expecting the pleasure of Atlantean company for a while longer.”

Sethis barely withheld a flinch, and he would have liked to shoot Lilian a warning look. She was angry—he could discern that much—but her words were much too inflammatory for an already fragile meeting.

“Please,” he said, attempting to inject some warmth in the air. “Know that we value such favor and shall certainly return it.”

The descending chill on Simon’s face briefly cleared, and he bowed again. They closed with some more benign platitudes—We remember the prosperous arrangements once served, we look forward to reestablishing the connection between our countries—and then departed the parlor, leaving Sethis and his retinue in that silent, cold room, surrounded by far too many valuable treasures.

Sethis raised his hand. “Bring the coffers to the treasury,” he calmly told the Royal Guard. “Leave us.”

He was not technically supposed to command them—they were meant to be loyal to his father the king, and his father only—but none protested, moving to heave the coffers out of the parlor. Once the doors shut, Sethis was left in privacy with his brother and cousin.

“Lilian,” he said quietly, “that was a rather enthusiastic toeing of the line.”

“Forgive me if I’m old enough to remember how Atlantis tried to push Uncle around,” Lilian said stiffly. “Even before the Storm, they had their eyes on Airlean holdings.”

“Given their location, it is only right for them to see the ocean routes as incursions into their territory,” Sethis rebutted. “In their eyes, we must have been sending fleets trawling right through their kingdom.”

“They wished to command and tax every viable trade route to Yuerai, simply because it cuts through the Atlas Sea!”

“She has a point, brother dear,” said Micah. “Kahu Tei is a collection of floating isles, yet never deigned to claim all skyspace as their own.”

“While that may be true,” Sethis said, “did we not tax the caravans of Zuhad for crossing our borders to reach the coastline?”

“And Atlantean borders include the entirety of the Atlas Sea?” Lilian shot a sour look at the door where Simon had departed. “They could not even enforce those borders. Their ambition precedes them.”

“Perhaps it does. Or perhaps they have grown stronger.” Sethis stood, his face written in a determined look. “Either way, there is only one course of action.”

“Exile them?” Micah suggested.

“Declare war?” Lilian added.

“I worry for the two of you. No, we shall host a gala.”

“A—a gala?” Lilian and Micah chorused.

“Yes. A ball. A soiree. After all, the people of Airlea have had little reason to celebrate in this past decade, and the arrival of a strong ally is reason to celebrate.”

Lilian’s eyes narrowed, and Micah tilted his head.

“You’re plotting something,” Micah said.

“Alas and always,” Sethis said ruefully. “Micah—”

“No need,” Micah said, shaking his head. “I already know what you’ll ask.”

“Will you do it?”

“Squeezing and studying humans for information has always been a pleasurable pastime.” Micah wrinkled his nose. “Speaking with them to do so, on the other hand…”

“No illicit interrogations, I beg you. We are already charting uncertain waters.”

“If you insist,” Micah said with a sullen tint. Empty banter and flattery was not his strong suit, but he would have to make do. They all would.

“Good,” said Sethis. He straightened. “Micah, if you would make for the Magistracy of Culture and put in the request. Lilian, please see to the arrangements of the palace. And I…I shall attempt to speak with my father.”

“He’ll turn you away at the door, as he always does,” Micah muttered.

“Hosting a gala on palace grounds without permission from the king seems to be in especially poor taste.”

“And if he denies you?” Lilian said flatly.

Sethis grimaced. “I shall simply have to convince him otherwise.”

Lilian squeezed his shoulder. Her eyes were just as knowing and piercing as his late mother’s, and always served to drill deep into his core.

“Your father hasn’t served as King of Airlea for years now, Seth,” she said softly. “I hope you know that.”

There was too much in that one sentence. Sympathy. Understanding. But also—the urge for him to dethrone his father by force, to take the crown even if he had to bloody it.

Sethis did not think he was strong enough to resort to such measures. Not yet.

He only patted Lilian’s hand and pulled away. “I know,” he said heavily. “The time will come. One day.”

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